Cabin Pressure Drabbles
by smallsteps32
Summary: A series of Cabin Pressure drabbles as they come to me. Douglas centric, because he's a darling.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello all. This isn't a chapter fic. This is going to be a collection of the drabbles that I've written for Cabin Pressure, most of them from tumblr prompts. Peruse as you will, and do please enjoy.**

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><p><strong>Prompt: Orchid, Twinkle, Bracelet.<strong>

It was the middle of winter, but Douglas had bundled himself in his jacket and coat, stolen the deck-chair that Carolyn kept in the hold, and set himself up outside the porta-cabin. _Behind_ the porta-cabin, to be precise – that way Carolyn wouldn't see him from the window.

He wouldn't have needed to brave the cold if the snow hadn't delayed their flight a whole week. The box of orchids would have been gone, not wilting in their cardboard box. Now he was burdened with the task of picking through them to find what few flowers were still good enough to trade in Moscow – when they eventually got there.

"Isn't there some sort of smuggler's rule?" Martin asked from Douglas' side, where he sat upon a garden chair commandeered from the engineer's hut. "Never get the same stock, o-or never go back to the same person?"

"I don't know what mafia flicks you've been watching, but that's not how it works," Douglas replied, smirking as he stole a sideways glance at his companion.

Martin's cheeks were flushed red from the cold, and his lips were set in the determined concentration that he epitomised. His slim hands were busy winding together the withered orchids that Douglas had discarded.

"What are you doing?"

"Daisy chains," Martin replied, without looking up.

"Those are _orchids_."

"I know they're orchids," Martin sniped, then sat back and lifted a hoop of flowers onto the tip of his finger. "Come here."

Without waiting for Douglas to assent, Martin reached out and slipped the ring of orchids over his wrist, concluded the motion with a smug 'hmph."

"Are you asking me to be your prom date?" Douglas drawled, but he shook his wrist so that the tattered flowers were no longer at risk of falling into the snow.

"No, I'm getting some use out of something you were planning on throwing away, and using my time productively."

"Are you sure?" Douglas inquired, smiling as he reached up and tipped Martin's hat where it was keeping his head nice and warm. "There's a definite loving, prom-aspiring twinkle in your eyes."

"You're a sod," Martin muttered, but the corners of his lips curled upwards as he folded his arms and adjusted the folds of his coat against the cold.

"You didn't _have_ to come out here with me."

"It was heavily implied that I did," Martin retorted. "You were standing at the door hinting at me – I-I thought you wanted to sneak off for some kissing, not to sort through your failed haul."

"I'm sure I can muster up some kissing, Captain," Douglas remarked, and dropped the orchids in his hands into the box at his feet. His fingers brushed Martin's cheek.

Martin rolled his eyes, but leaned across the space between them to receive a brief kiss – shorter than Douglas would have liked, but still worth the exasperated expression on Martin's face when he settled back down.

"You're still a sod."

"I have an orchid bracelet that says otherwise."


	2. Chapter 2

**Prompt: Rain, Tea, Photo**

The thing about being Douglas Richardson was that in spite all the long-standing failures in his life, he was still remarkably lucky. Talented and relatively hard-working when he needed to be, yet, but he was marginally content with the understanding that he could breeze through life and never quite hit the rocky bottom of utter disaster.

However, when an unlucky day came around once in a blue-tinted moon… it didn't just rain, it poured.

More aptly, it poured over his head as Douglas knelt beside his beautiful Lexus, the one crowning jewel in the carved out hollow that was his actually rather cosy set-up on the edge of Fitton, and used all manner of polish and filler and buffer to remove the grotesque disfigurement that marred its shiny physique.

He had arrived home via taxi from the air-field, only to discover that in his absence some urchin had keyed his car. It was easily fixable, with some elbow grease, but Douglas could have done without the gallons of water pouring over his head and making his hair drip into his eyes.

Never mind.

Once the job was done, Douglas hurried inside, dried himself off, and set about making himself a warm cup of tea. A perfectly made cup of tea could make even Martin's pithiest fit of pique half-way bearable. True, Arthur couldn't quite make a perfect cup of tea, but he was getting better.

As the charming fumes wafted up his nose and the warmth chased away the chills under his skin, Douglas sighed and looked about his living room. It was still and quiet and far more empty than he was comfortable with, but he was more used to it than he had been used to anything else. The stillness was one companion that didn't stay away long, and it panged all the more after the stressful, strained sort of flight that their last had been.

It was only when he lowered himself into the armchair that Douglas' eyes fell upon the oddly shaped parcel on his coffee table. He plucked it up and inspected it, and suddenly recalled taking it from Arthur and forgetting to open it in light of a million and one other things that he was putting off.

Douglas set about unwrapping it, but paused to read the note that was slipped inside.

_Hi, Douglas – we got the prints and Mum said there were too many so I remembered that you said you were excellent at photography but a bit annoyed that Mum made you be in the photos instead of letting you take them. Anyway, this is a spare one for you. We've all got one now, which is brilliant, because we all look really great. – Love Arthur._

Douglas couldn't help but smile. He set the note aside and unwrapped the hard, rectangular object. It was clear that Arthur had put a lot of effort it. There was a frame and everything.

It was the photograph that really made Douglas smile though. It pushed the rain and the poor flight and the scratch along his car – all of it from his mind.

Carolyn had wanted company photographs as well as a video, so they had all lined up, tongue in cheek, and played along.

It was worth it.

The four of them looked good together, standing side by side under GERTI's wing – MJN all together and smiling, pretending that they were a happy family and smirking because they really were, under all of their bluff.

Douglas' day got a little bit better.


	3. Chapter 3

**Prompt: Fever, Lobster, Blue**

Douglas would be damned if this fever got the best of him.

The stars had aligned and given him a perfect day.

This was the first time in years that he was in the country on his eldest daughter's birthday.

Verity was in a fantastic mood due to a flurry of success on her Master's Degree and had agreed to spend the day with him. When asked what she had always wanted, her answer had been 'to eat a lobster dinner' – one that she didn't have to pay through the nose for.

Martin agreed to collect the perfect lobster from a 'friend' on the coast, earning Icarus a few pounds and Douglas a happy daughter.

The stars had aligned…seen Douglas' joy, and decided to strike him down with a high temperature, slight dizziness, and a tickly throat.

Not that that would stop him. Douglas was a trooper. Verity was going to have a nice day if it killed him. He'd just be sure to die after she'd left.

Douglas was just putting the finishing touching to the meal, embellishing so that he could pull it out later without needing to fuss in the kitchen and lose precious moments with Verity, when said daughter appeared at his side. He hadn't heard the front door, and was slightly ashamed to admit that he startled…if not sluggishly.

"Oh, darling, I didn't hear-"

"Are you alright, Dad?" Verity asked.

Her eyes wandered to the lobster and childlike anticipation flashed across her face, but she hastily resumed her concern as she placed a hand on her father's back.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine. Now, how about you-"

"No, you're not fine," Verity shook her head. Her voice was soft, the perfect bedside manner. "How about you go and sit down."

Douglas thought he put up a fight, but in the end he found himself being pushed down onto the sofa. The next moment he was swathed in the big blue blanket from the guest room that both of his daughter's used. The next…he wasn't sure when it happened, but he had tea with honey wrapped between his palms.

"But your birthday – the lobster-"

"Are you kidding?" Verity flopped down on the sofa beside him and tucked her feet up. In her hands, she held a bowl filled to the brim with lobster. "I'm eating this whether you can or not."

Warmth settled in Douglas' chest and he couldn't stifle a faint chuckle, or a smirk, as he watched his daughter.

She was beautiful as ever, smug smile fixed on her lips as she reached for the remote and turned on the television. She looked perfectly content.

"God. I can't remember the last time I had the TV to myself. My roommate normally hogs it – this is delicious by the way."

Douglas hummed his acknowledgement and lay back, hugging the blue blanket more tightly as the fever and contentment took hold. Verity talked to him even though she wasn't sure he was listening, and it was perfect.


	4. Chapter 4

**Prompt: Bannana, Stew, Teddy**

**douglasrichardsonskitkat** answered:martin/douglas banana, stew, teddy

It was all the banana's fault.

Or, to be more exact, the banana fun-facts that Arthur had found on the internet telling him that bananas were better before they were ripe…or long after…he couldn't remember.

That was the mantra that Douglas had clung to, throughout the second leg of the flight, during the ride to the hotel, and all the way up to their hotel room as he grew queasier. It was that or turn on Arthur, which Douglas had steadfastly refused to do...once he had calmed down.

"How does one ruin banoffee pie? You chop up the bananas, you put them on the base, bang on some cream-"

"I know, Douglas," Martin had sighed as he had slid his First-Officer's arm over his shoulder. "You've said that three times."

"Oh…have I?" Douglas had murmured. "The nausea must be making me dizzy."

Now, Martin slid into the darkened hotel room, cheap but medicinal stew in one hand, spontaneous gift in the other. He kicked the door shut and crossed the room.

Douglas was huddled in bed, covers bundled around him as a faint breeze blew in through the open window – he couldn't decide whether he was hot or cold.

Gently nudging the lump that was Douglas' shoulder, in order to check that he was awake and alert him to his presence, Martin lowered himself onto the mattress beside him. He kicked off his shoes and placed the stew on the bedside table, then turned and waited for Douglas to stop grumbling.

"What…go to sleep, Martin…"

Douglas rolled over onto his back, kicking the covers down. Even in the weak light from outside, his skin was clammy and the lines around his eyes were severe.

"I brought you something," Martin announced, but Douglas cut him off with a hand thrown up and curled around his wrist.

"I'm not hungry…I won't be hungry until the end of time. Arthur's killed me."

"Well, as your Captain, I have to insist that you eat some of the stew. If not now, then later," Martin replied softly. Douglas only grunted, so Martin brushed a hand over his sweaty brow and leant down a press a small kiss to his unusually rumpled hair. "As your partner, I've brought you something to cheer you up."

From behind his back, Martin revealed the small teddy-bear that he had found in the airport gift-shop. He had nearly walked past the shop, until the bear, in its quaint Captain's uniform, had caught his eye.

Douglas' brow furrowed, but in his sluggish state, he reached out and took it.

"He wears your uniform better than you do."

"He's to keep you company while I go and finish the paperwork," Martin informed him, ignoring the prod as he squeezed Douglas' shoulder. "Do you want him?"

"No," Douglas grumbled, but he rolled onto his side, taking the bear with him.

Smiling to himself, Martin left Douglas with his phone within reach, bear tucked under his elbow, snoring before the door had even closed.


	5. Chapter 5

**Prompt: Househunting**

If there was one thing that Douglas had never thought he would be doing again, it was uprooting himself and starting afresh… and yet, he was pleased to be doing it. This time there was a sense of finality to it, a sense of… realness.

That wasn't to say he hadn't loved his wives. Douglas had loved them, even if sometimes his booze addled memory made it seem like he had only loved the idea of them. Douglas was a hopeless romantic to the bitter end, and he had loved them.

That was why he had put on such an act – tried so hard to keep them, to please them, to be exactly the sort of man that he wanted to be. The perfect husband: charming, loyal, hard-working, with a dash of excitement and eager to please… and they had all fallen for it until the cracks started to show.

Even when the worst of the cracks had been paved over and he was eight years sober with a fairly stable job, Helena had seen through the cracks. Underneath the act was an aging man, a failed pilot, a recovering alcoholic, and an unwillingly absent father. So the pretending had come to an end.

Which was why this time, something felt real and secure and although it was tentative, Douglas was sure that what he and Martin had was going to last. Because it wasn't perfect, they weren't the sort of people that bought each other chocolates and wrote poetry. They gve each other the better landings and played games long after the air-field had emptied and the groundsmen had gone home. They were the best of friends, and often the worst of enemies, and somewhere in the middle they were colleagues who knew exactly how persnickety and petulant and sarcastic and caustic and down-right unlucky both of them could be.

And for the first time in what seemed like forever, Douglas felt like somebody could _see_ him.

That was why they were house-hunting. It was a natural step in most relationships… but that wasn't why they were doing in. In fact, Douglas had been wary about suggesting it for exactly that reason. But they agreed to it because it was practical – and when Douglas thought about it, the dedication that Martin put into things being 'practical' was quite endearing.

Martin couldn't stay in Parkside forever. Douglas refused to spend another night listening to students through the floor.

Douglas couldn't share the house that he and Helena had bought with Martin. It didn't seem fair.

Martin's choice of house was practical and affordable and robust and everything that he valued.

Douglas' choice of house was… too close to perfect. He wasn't the sort of man that made a perfect husband, no matter how much he pretended, but he wanted it more than anything. It was the romantic heart in him. He wanted a white-picket fence and space enough for guests. More than that, he wanted a garden – a proper one, with grass and a patio, room for his youngest daughter to play and space for if they ever wanted a pet, with an area of course for when he retired and spent his days tending to flowers and vegetables and a herb garden and pulling fruit from a small tree to turn into jam.

Inside every daring, adventurous sky-god, there was a quaint little poet's heart that wanted to indulge in small luxuries with his beau whilst a family of bluebirds fluttered at the bottom of the garden that he really wanted.

Douglas didn't tell Martin. The romantic in him shone out whenever they were together, but he reigned it in when it came to decisions… best not to scare him away, or worse, to accidently fool him like he had his exes.

So Douglas gazed wistfully at the sweet little houses that huddled together in the half-mile surrounding the air-field, said nothing, and listened instead to Martin as he chirped away and marched them through a variety of unfamiliar and unbearably modern flats.

"This one's quite near the main road, and it's got excellent phone reception."

"This one's quite cheap, a-and we wouldn't have to drag ourselves up eight flights of stairs after a long – well, a long flight."

"This one's got new fittings! Douglas, look! I-I think this might actually be marble!"

And yet, in spite of all of his exclamations, Martin had turned down every single one. So, the subject was dropped and they visited fewer flats until they were visiting none at all. It wasn't until a long stand-by turned into the whole crew just sitting around with nothing to do that Martin brought it up again.

"I-I really think we need to widen our net a bit," Martin said as he tapped the top of his pen on a pile of paperwork that had been done twice already. He was behind his desk, as he nearly always was, but had given in to the sluggishness that had seized them all and shirked his jacket in favour of rolled up shirt-sleeves. "W-we need to make a decision before my next rent is due."

Douglas sighed and turned off his phone, watching the virtual newspaper slide away, then looked across the room from the dingy porta-cabin sofa.

"We've looked at hundreds of flats and you've turned down every one," he said.

"That's because you didn't seem to be with me," Martin replied.

Douglas rolled his eyes.

"Martin, I know that your head is buried high, high in the clouds, but it can't be so high that you failed to notice me accompanying you to every single property we viewed."

"You know what I mean," Martin retorted. "You didn't seem very keen."

"I said yes to all of them."

"You said '_Sure, fine, whatever you want. I'm sure the smell of cockroaches is just a pleasing aesthetic.'_" Martin drawled, putting on a poor approximation of Douglas' voice that nonetheless tickled him. "That's not a yes. I couldn't even smell anything."

"Well then we just keep looking," Douglas remarked. "You've never been one to give up."

At this, Martin abandoned his desk and crossed the room to drop down beside Douglas. The cushions tipped under him but he sat up straight, chin tipped up and he pouted, and fixed Douglas with his utmost attempt at authority. It earned him a raised eyebrow, but no wry comment.

"Douglas, I know you're not telling me something. You've been doing that… th-that quiet thing that you do, you know-"

"Being quiet?"

"Yes, being quiet," Martin said as he leaned in close and held his head high. "Now, I didn't want to do this, b-but I am ordering you, as your captain, to tell me what's wrong with all the flats that we've been viewing."

A sharp retort pricked at the tip of Douglas' tongue, but he swallowed it. The flicker of indignation was forcibly stifled as he knew that Martin was the king of that particular round table and could take prissy indignation to a fiery pinnacle if challenged. Instead, he chose evasion, knowing that it would wind Martin up, but not enough to start an argument in the porta-cabin, whilst Carolyn was just next-door tutoring Arthur on another aspect of stewarding that he had improvised.

"You can't pull rank over matters of the home and hearth," Douglas said, blithely, biting back the urge to cut rather than prod as he stared into Martin's blue-eyed, flushed-cheeked face. "You told me quite clearly that I wasn't to call you Captain at home."

"I said in the bedroom!" Martin hissed in a stage-whisper, turning even more red than before. "Please, just tell me."

"Fine. I don't like them," Douglas admitted, heart clenching as he waited for the resignation to cloud Martin's expression. "I don't want to live in a flat. I want a house – a proper house, with a lovely exterior and a quaint little set of rooms and a garden that we can dig up and sit in and enjoy in the summer because frankly I think that it would be charming."

It came out a bit quick, but Douglas was sure that he had managed at least 43% nonchalance – enough to keep his pride airborne, at least.

Except, Martin didn't look upset, or shocked. He nose was scrunched and he was dragging his lip through his teeth and he looked for all the world as if he was deep in thought, staring at Douglas all the while.

Then he came back to himself with a small, almost shy smile; just a twitch at the corners of his lips that nonetheless lit up his face. It made something in Douglas' chest rise and warm.

"That's…th-that's actually quite sweet."

"I'm not sweet."

"Oh, you are though, you sod," Martin muttered, shaking his head as he slouched against the sofa, tilting until he was resting against Douglas' side. Then he folded his arms and blinked up at the ceiling with a dreamy look on his face. "God, it's been ages since I had a garden."

Douglas hummed his acknowledgment, partly to make up for his lack of composure only moments before, and partly because he couldn't think of anything to say that wasn't gooey and ever so slightly needy.

"That sounds really nice actually." Martin was still musing to himself. He turned his head so that it rested on Douglas' shoulder and smiled up at him, face still scrunched in the way that it did when he thought that he was thinking too hard. "W-we should do that – g-get a proper house with a garden that is. You know what, we will. I-I'll start keeping an eye out."

Instead of answering, Douglas beamed as best as he could whilst feeling somewhat embarrassed, even though Martin had no idea that he had anything to feel embarrassed about, and tilted his head down. Martin took advantage of the motion and pecked his lips, then returned to his monologue, imagining problems and then discarding them as he constructed exactly the sort of white-picket house that Douglas had been imagining.


	6. Chapter 6

**Martin/Douglas AU**

"What do you mean the taxi isn't coming?"

Douglas pinned his phone between his shoulder and his ear as he wrapped his scarf around his neck and buttoned his coat over the jacket, jumper, and fleece that he was wearing to fend off the cold. As he did so, he stared out of the window at the thin layer of icy sludge that covered everything from his lawn to the shingles on the neighbour's house.

"_I don't know how much more explicit I can be," _Carolyn replied, as curt as ever. There was a brittle edge to her voice that promised a flight filled with coughs and sniffles and an Arthur that was no doubt filled with energy despite requiring bed-rest. "_The driver called me this morning and cancelled because of the snow."_

"Snow?" Douglas retorted. "It's not _snowy_ – a mild sleet at most."

_"__It's enough to shut down the bus route."_

"Oh, I _see_. So it's too dangerous for the buses and the taxi drivers, but good old jet pilots like myself are perfectly safe," Douglas drawled as he yanked the curtains shut. "It's not as if I have to steer a plane down a hundred metre ice-rink faster than any bus could travel – without, I might add, a co-pilot."

_"__Yes, yes, it's a terrible tragedy. We've all been hit very hard,"_ Carolyn sighed. "_Look, Douglas. I don't care how you get here, just make sure that you are _here_. If you're _very_ good, I might even consider letting you see the tip that Ms Goode is giving us for coming out in such abominable weather._"

"Fine, I suppose," Douglas replied. "Give me an hour."

"_You only live twenty minutes away-"_

"And yet I require an hour," Douglas said. "Bye."

He hung up before Carolyn could say another word and buried his phone in his inner-most pocket, beneath layers and layers of fabric. Consigning himself to a miserable hike to the airfield, he crossed the room to his wardrobe and weighed up the benefits of a woolly hat against the relative ease of wearing his pilot's hat, purely for the sake of carrying less.

In the end, he went for the pilot's hat, even though it would leave his ears vulnerable to the chill. Then he stuffed his hands into the mittens that his oldest daughter had knitted him, even though they made him feel like a three-year-old, and headed out the door.

Fitton in the snow was, in a word, dull. There was a crisp bite in the air and a prickle on the wind that cut through his many layers, it seemed, out of sheer spite. What might once have been a winter wonderland had been stomped down in places and reduced to a grey soup, Douglas actually found himself being battered by the wind as it pummelled him, whistling in his ears.

As he cursed their latest client, Douglas noted that at least one person had been brave enough to face the weather. There was a van parked at the end of the street, back doors wide open with a chest of drawers leaning against the interior. He wished the poor soul well.

It wasn't until Douglas was at the other end of the street, long past the van, that the wind picked up, actually pushing him off course. With one tremendous gust, his hat was torn from his head and his shout was lost in the vicious howl that took it. He watched it twirl like a rabid bat for only a moment, fingers closing around harsh, empty air, before it was out of sight.

"Ow!"

Douglas whirled towards the source of the shout, already moving towards it as he chased his hat. He wasn't one to startle, but he did slow as he was met with the sight of a man whose face was as red as his hair, bundled in an envious amount of coats, arms flailing as he spluttered and clutched at the hat that appeared to have smacked him in the face.

On closer inspection, Douglas realised that the man must have been the owner of the van, the keys for which now lay in a damp spot in the snow.

"I'm ever so sorry," Douglas said in lieu of an introduction. "You appear to have inadvertently rescued my hat."

"Wh-what?" the man spluttered. He blinked as if seeing Douglas for the first time, then glanced down at the hat and jumped, gripping the rim more tightly. "O-oh, yes – sorry about that."

"No need to apologise," Douglas assured him. "I should be asking you how your face is holding up."

"M-my face?" the man replied, eyebrows rising as he shifted on his feet, looking Douglas up and down. "My face is fine, really. Nothing to worry about – i-it was just a bit of a shock, that's all."

"You're sure?" Douglas asked. "You made quite an _ow_."

The man seemed to puff up with indignation, even as he shivered, and he turned the hat over his in his hands. In spite of the hurry he was in and the horrid cold, Douglas couldn't help the flicker of amusement that had his lips twitching.

"I-I'm fine, _really_," the man said. He tipped up his chin. "I-it's nothing I can't handle."

"Oh, well, in that case." Douglas reached out a hand to take back the hat, but the man offered his own hand instead, so Douglas shook of the momentary mental hitch and shook his hand, plastering on a charming smile that didn't quite meet his mood so early in the morning. "Douglas Richardson."

"Martin Crieff, h-hello," the man replied, still gripping his hand. Then he seemed to realise his mistake and if possible, his cheeks grew even redder. "O-oh, sorry. You wanted your hat." As Douglas nodded, he thrust the item back into his grasp, pausing for only a moment, expression brightening in the split-second that he relinquished it. "Y-you're a pilot?"

Douglas took a moment to secure the hat on his head, taking great pleasure from the protection it provided from the wind.

"Yes."

"I-I only ask because _I_'_m_ a pilot."

"_Really_?"

Douglas glanced between Martin Crieff and the van, which was still suffering from a severe case of having a chest of drawers poking out of its rear.

Martin side-stepped so that he was between Douglas and the van, hands lacing together.

"Y-yes, really. I-I _am_ a pilot," he insisted.

There was an edge of pride, slightly caustic as if waiting for a challenge, which caught Douglas' already vulnerable attention. He was just uncomfortable and wrong-footed enough to be drawn in by the man's stammering, the faint guilt over maiming the man with his hat keeping him in place despite the risk of turning into an actual block of ice.

"I-I mean, I'm a man with a van, obviously, b-but I'm a pilot as well," Martin continued, growing more flushed with each syllable. "I-I've got a licence, and a job, s-so – that's why I brought it up, y-you know, a-as a conversation started, a-and I realise now that you're probably going somewhere important, b-but I-"

"Martin," Douglas interrupted, and Martin fell silent immediately. Douglas cleared his throat and buried his hands in his pockets, turning his back on the path that he was supposed to be heading down. "Am I right in thinking that I'm forgiven for hitting you in the face?"

Martin's eyes widened.

"Oh, y-yes, of course."

"Good. Thank you."

"I-it's really no problem," Martin said as he rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. "R-really, I-I'm sorry for keeping you so long. I-it's just it's been a while since I've met a pilot I don't work with, a-and they're all washed-up and boring, a-and I just carried away, I suppose, s-sorry-"

"There's no need to be sorry," Douglas cut him off again, ducking his head ever so slightly so that Martin couldn't see his slight smirk, the only outward sign of the odd warmth that had flickered into life in his chest. "I _am_ rather interesting, even if I say so myself."

"Sure," Martin snorted. He shook his head and moved as if to return to his van, but when he saw Douglas' involuntary step towards him, following without thought to continue the conversation, he stopped. "R-really… it didn't hurt that much. I'm sure you can make it up to me," he joked – then he seemed to realise that he was joking and raised his hands in hasty surrender. "N-not that you have to make it up to me."

As he pursed his lips, Douglas was forced to admit that he was charmed. Granted, the man was a mess, but he was already a more interesting way to pass the time than a plane full of flu-ridden steward and CEO.

"No, no, no, don't be like that," Douglas drawled. "It was clumsy of me. I'm sure there's something I can do." He looked again to the van, even as Martin stammered that he didn't need anything. "Do you need a hand with the chest of drawers?"

"No, really," Martin said, doing a marvellous job of blending gratitude with stubbornness as he blocked the path to the van. "That's nice of you, b-but I can handle it."

"It looks like a two man job to me."

"W-well it's not."

"Are you sure?" Douglas inquired, arching an eyebrow. "I thought you wanted to talk about flying."

"That's not what I said," Martin retorted. "I-I actually just said you were a pilot-"

"We _could_ talk about flying," Douglas suggested. Martin paused and his eyes widened as his lips formed a small 'oh'. "One pilot to another."

"W-well, I suppose we could," Martin said, and the bashful sort of smile that he had worn at first returned, bolstered by a fraction more confidence. "B-but you don't have to help with the van. Y-you could just… y-you don't have to help. Really, I don't mind about that hat."

Douglas snorted, but moved past Martin to inspect the chest of drawers and the sorry state of the van.

"If you say so," he said. "You know, my boss is looking for another pilot. If you impress me, I might even offer to hand over a CV."

The hungry expression that flashed across Martin's face was enough to convince Douglas that this was most definitely worth turning up late to work. This was quickly followed by red-cheeked embarrassment and a barrage of bluster as Martin made a show of getting back to work, cementing the fond flickers that were lighting up in Douglas' chest.


	7. Chapter 7

**Alright, here it is. I found the correct chapter - phew. I'd lost it in amongst all the Marlas drabbles.**

**I'm glad WikketKrikket pointed out to me that I'd repeated _another_ chapter, because I really hadn't noticed, and it would be a shame to miss out on this other brilliant couple. (This was wriitten before Zurich, so things are off but still good I hope)**

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><p>For once in his life, Martin felt like everything was at peace.<p>

MJN had been a high. Meeting Theresa had been a high. Struggling to decide whether he should move to Switzerland and be with her, abandoning the three people that had effectively become his family and leaving them bankrupt, or sticking with MJN and losing out on the chance for love… that had been a low.

More than a low, it had wrought havoc.

However, if there was one thing that Martin Crieff was good at, it was hard work. So he turned down the offer from Swiss Air, stayed with MJN, and put as much effort as he could into maintaining a long-distance relationship. And somehow… it worked. For once in his life, everyone that he knew, his friends, his family, his girlfriend, all of them were reasonable and accepted the fact that he was pulled in more directions than he could count.

And now, Martin was buckling down and pulling all the strings together.

Theresa was a busy woman, running a small country and all, and that would always come first. Martin was a busy man, jetting around the world, and he was never going to give that up. It balanced out nicely. Sure, they didn't see each other every day, sometimes not for weeks, but when they _were_ together, things were almost perfect.

So Martin proposed, and Theresa said yes, and it was as simple as that. Being happy had never been simpler. That he floundered and flustered didn't matter, because she was so down to earth and patient that somehow she managed to keep everything afloat, keep him calm, and keep him hopeful.

All that was left to do was make sure that the other most important part of his life wasn't floating away.

MJN would always be there, so would GERTI, if it was the last thing he ever did. Carolyn and Arthur were supportive whatever he did, and he loved them for it. The only person that still seemed to be drifting was Douglas.

Douglas, Martin's best friend even if he did want to strangle him every other Thursday, who had been oddly morose since well before Martin had even applied for a job at Swiss Air. Who had been so eager for Martin to go and be happy and had been thrilled to see him finally catch a break, at work and in his love life, and yet had fallen peculiarly silent in regards to his own life. He barely even showed off anymore. When he did something annoying, instead of boasting or hinting, he pretended nothing had happened.

Martin recalled a time so long ago, when he had refused to admit that he was the one who had ironed bacon into his shirt, even if it was an accident. The Douglas of a few months earlier would have poked and prodded until Martin had noticed.

It didn't take long to work out what was going on. Douglas was reaching retirement age, he was at risk of losing his job, the man that he spent almost every day with was ready to leave at any moment… Douglas was setting himself adrift before they could cut him loose.

Martin wasn't having that.

Early Monday morning, Martin stood on the steps of Douglas' house, waiting for him to open the door. When Douglas opened the door, it was with a raised eyebrow and a flicker of surprise that he was perhaps a tad too tired to hide. Martin noted that while he was in uniform, he was bereft of shoes or a jacket, with a cup of coffee in hand, and he looked like he planned on slouching about the house for hours yet.

"Martin," Douglas greeted him as he stepped aside to allow him entry. "Are you running the taxi service today? I wasn't informed."

"No, I-I'm not. You still have to drive yourself… o-or actually, as I'm here, it might be easier if I just drove you in...b-but that's not what I'm here for," Martin replied, taking a deep breath. He didn't want to survey the room, or get drawn into a conversation. He was on a mission and wouldn't be side-tracked…again. "I-I wanted to talk to you. It's important."

At this, Douglas nodded slowly and placed his coffee down, his movements transmitting concern in the soft, cautious way that they sometimes did.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

The last time Martin had been desperate to talk, he had been fretting over his brother's stupid moustache. In retrospect, this was far more important, but far less worrying.

"N-nothing's wrong, I just, I-I just…" Martin stammered as he gathered up his nerve. When he spoke, he couldn't quite stop the fizzle of light in his chest from simmering into a smile. "I'm getting married. I-I-I proposed, a-and Theresa said yes, a-and we're getting married."

There was a split second where Douglas' expression dropped – but the next he was beaming, and bridged the space between them to clap Martin on the back. It was the closest to a hug they had ever got, and Martin clumsily tried to prolong it, just for a moment, but wasn't quite successful as Douglas disengaged.

"That's wonderful, Martin. Congratulations!" Douglas said. The smile didn't fade but Martin swore that his eyes watered ever so slightly as for once, he actually seemed to lose the thread of what he was saying and start to ramble. "I knew you could do it," The warmth spread through him and Martin's own eyes burned. Almost as an afterthought, Douglas added. "I'm proud of you."

Martin nodded quickly and choked as he sniffed and composed himself. He dutifully ignored the fingers that pinched at the bridge of Douglas' nose and barrelled on before he could lose his nerve.

"I need you to be best man."

Douglas paused, glanced down at his hands, and then the slightly stiff swagger returned.

"Well, if you're sure you want-"

"N-no, I don't want you to be, I _need_ you to be my best man," Martin corrected. He wished he had his hat to grasp and turn in his hands, but he had left it in the van. This wasn't a conversation he wanted to have as Captain…just as Martin. "Y-you're my best friend, a-and I wouldn't be where I am today without you, e-even if that's just because you were so difficult that I had to get better… no, n-no, that's not it. You helped so much, a-and I… I just really need you to stick around, a-and to be a part of this – o-of the wedding, a-and of helping me along, just…j-just so that-"

"Of course," Douglas cut him off, raising a hand to silence him. Martin waited with bated breath as Douglas nodded solemnly and inhaled slowly, as if he was the one having trouble balancing all the happy with the need to bring everyone together. Perhaps he was simply overwhelmed, but Martin had never seen him overwhelmed, so didn't dare hope. "Of course I'll be your best man. Can't have Captain Mishap planning his own wedding… lord knows what would happen."

He trailed off as if he knew that it was weak.

Martin didn't care. He grinned and didn't wait for Douglas to get over his surprise before he pulled him into a proper hug – a manly, Captainly, perfectly wedding-jitters worthy hug. There were most definitely not tears in his eyes. Or sniffles in his nose.


End file.
